The wind has dropped a limb outside my apartment building, blocking a path. Steady rain has floated decaying leaves downstream, clogging drains and creating mini-ponds in parking lots and along roadsides. I have cloistered myself inside most of the day watching the sky move from chalky gray to a black that bounces the remaining ambient lights of Christmas back down on the neighborhood. We are in deep winter in the Pacific Northwest where a week of water-laden clouds may greet us each morning and stay well into the night. For some, it becomes wearisome. Though I tire of the chill in my bones, I welcome the dampening like a trumpeter that mutes the music to soften crisp tones. It is easier to be still this time of year.
Shattered: On Loss, Grief, and Growth
Perhaps a year after we moved into our home and furniture finally made an appearance in our living room, my ex and I purchased two pieces of art. It was a stretch for us, but both pieces brought us pleasure over the years. One piece was a large, glass-blown plate saturated with turquoise, navy, pearl, rose, and fuchsia elegance. Heavy, it sat upright nested in a plastic holder on the console table behind the couch where on bright days it would retain the sun’s heat. The plate witnessed birthday parties, holiday gatherings, graduations, and close to three decades of life passing by. If you believe, like I do, that even inanimate objects can soak in the energy of a home, this one held love and loss, sadness and acceptance, disappointment and relief…and bundles of laughter. That plate appeared in a myriad of family photos as it remained in the same spot for over 27 years until we sold our home and divorced four years ago. It absorbed our stories as much as it absorbed the heat of the sun.
Creativity
Creativity. It is so simple to say we are born creative. We are all creative. Heck, the very act of learning to be in our world is creative. A friend was sharing about her two-year old grandson who knew he wasn’t supposed to do a certain behavior, but he figured out a way to “sneak it in” before she could catch him—creative! So why does my acceptance of my own creativity ebb and flow throughout my life—even sometimes during a day?
